


The Piano

by readtolive



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Bigotry & Prejudice, Blood and Violence, Cheating, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mute Stiles Stilinski, Mutilation, Not Canon Compliant, Orphan Stiles Stilinski, Out of Character, Possessive Derek, Punishment, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 05:02:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19311166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readtolive/pseuds/readtolive
Summary: The only thing clear about Derek and Stiles' arranged marriage was that Derek's hand in it was bought for three sheep.As for Stiles, marrying Derek was his only option.Stiles got shipped to a faraway, unspecified land where his husband lived.This is a grim story about pride, shyness, repression, loneliness, punishment, revenge, cruelty, prejudice, cheating, abuse, mutilation and so many other unspeakable things.But, it is also a story about too many lost shoes and finding true love in the least expected place.





	The Piano

**Author's Note:**

> A peculiar and haunting story for your entertainment.

_The voice I hear is not my speaking voice, but my mind's voice._

_I_ _have not spoken since I was six years old._

_No one knows why, not even me. My father used to say it was a dark talent and the day I took it into my head to stop breathing would be my last._

_It would be good my new husband had God's patience, for silence affects everyone in the end._

_The strange thing is I don't think myself silent, that is, because of my piano._

_I shall miss it on the journey._

 

 

There was so much mud, everywhere.

Stiles had never seen so much mud in his life before. When he had been told he was being sent to a seaside settlement, this was not what he had expected.

Even the beach sand was kind of muddy, more dark and wet soil than distinguishable grains that could seep and scatter, as they normally did. Instead, they were mashed into filthy paste near the edge of water.

And it was cold.

Amidst a riotous sea Stiles had been carried to shore on the shoulders of five seamen. He wore his grey pants and jacket, which he thought were well fitted back when this journey had only been a fantasy inside his head; but now the wind gusts made them flap wildly against his body and Stiles shook with chills.

He had heard the Maori speak when they left Stiles on the shore, but the wind and the low manner of their speaking made it impossible to hear the exact nature of the discussion; only some tidbits, as such.

“'Tis a dead shore, a dead shore.”

“Leave him here, it's what he wanted.”

“A pox on you!”

“Ay, very nice, leave him and be lynched for the pleasure.”

“Do what you like, I'm off this shore.”

 

At last, he was alone.

He stood where they disembarked him, surrounded by his wooden boxes. One was filled with his fine linen, sheets, bedspreads and table cloths --  ridiculous extravagances, they seemed; and the other contained his clothes and various personal trinkets, such as nice ivory brushes and combs.

They used to belong to his beautiful mother and Stiles cherished them for that.

His hair was neatly combed, pressed firmly against his skull. It made him look like a skeleton, but that was his preference.

The third, oddly shaped box, three times the size of others, contained his most prized possession – his piano.

It too had been his mother’s, long, long time ago. She had taught Stiles how to play, scales, songs, sonatas, concertos, everything.

He somehow managed to move one box, pushing it with the force of his whole body across the wet sand onto a drier looking patch, and climbed on top of it, resolved for a long wait.

He couldn’t do anything about the piano. He spent his wait watching the tide creeping towards it in apprehension. He hoped someone would fetch him soon.

 

Soon, there were voices.

Stiles raised his head and saw five robust figures coming towards him through the blurry mist of drizzle and seawater. They shouted at each other, pulling at Stiles’ boxes, organizing the journey.

Stiles hopped down and moved aside.

“Is this a bloody piano? “, one of the men asked. “Unbelievable.“

“We aren't hauling this behemoth up the mountain, boss,“ the other said.

“You're not paying us enough, Derek.“

 

Derek.

That was the name of the man he was sent to. There was slim chance that this settlement of not more than fifty people had more than one Derek.

Stiles' head turned to look at the man. He did not look much like the person on the faded black and white photo Stiles had been given at the orphanage -- a small gesture of good will from his carers.

Derek was looking into the sky, then at the piano, then at the sky again. “No, not in this weather, we aren't.“

Stiles panicked.

He shook his head in rapid movements and flapped his arms. _No. No. The piano goes with me_.

He gaped like a fish, no sound coming out of his mouth. He waved his skinny arms towards the piano, looking frantically at Derek.

 _The piano goes with me_ , he tried to communicate. He grabbed the pad and the pencil hung around his neck and scribbled swiftly. _The piano goes with me._

Derek looked at him then, for the first time that Stiles was aware of, and Stiles shivered.

“The piano stays. The journey is hard enough without it,“ his words final like guillotine.

***

Stiles hardly remembered it.

His legs kept getting stuck in the mud, sometimes knee-deep. He lost one of his shoes half way through and his hands were scratched from grabbing onto bushes, rough tree stumps and rare branches sticking out from the ground, trying to heave himself up. And up they went for a long time, many hours; he wasn't sure.

Once the winding path lead them way above the sea, across a pointed cliff overlooking the beach, Stiles made a mistake and looked down.

The piano legs were already half immersed into the salty water.

***

He was lead into Derek's house without much ceremony, a small wooden thing with a big kitchen that, as Stiles would soon learn, also served as entryway and a sitting room; and two, perhaps three bedrooms.

Soaked to the bone and miserable, he expected to keep being ignored and just stood there, uncertain; but soon enough, three busty women came and nudged him towards the fireplace.

They fussed with his muddy clothes, stripping him like he was a three year old, throwing them away onto a filthy pile.

Stiles was too tired to protest.

The women spoke about him like he was not there.

“Ah, wretched boy. Look at him, a sad sack of tiny bones.“

“Does he not speak at all, Nessie?“

“Aye. I do not know what the boss was thinking.“

“The orphanage promised him three ewes if he took him. They couldn't keep him any longer.“

“Well. They didn't feed him much there, that's for sure. Not much use from him in the fields.“

One of them – Ada – took the pot of water from the stove and poured it into a bucket. The other – Maisie - reached for Stiles' undergarment.

Stiles' arm shot out and he grabbed her hand.

The conversation ceased and the three women stared at Stiles.

He shook his head. _No_. He made shooing motions with his hands. _Out. Out. Out_.

“Rude.“

“Let's go, Ada. He can wash himself.“

“The boss said we do it.“

“The boss can do it himself, then. I'm not helping where help's not wanted.“

 

When they left like ducks in a row, Stiles came to the door and bolted it after their indignant glares.

He scrubbed himself as much as he could and dug out some clean clothes from his box. He didn't know what to do with the filthy water, so he just shoved the bucket with his feet into a corner.

He didn't know which room was his, if he was expected to sleep in Derek's room or he was to have one of his own, so he just picked one he liked the most and locked himself inside. Then he remembered he had forgotten to unbolt the front door after his bathing. He made a quick business out of it and ran back as fast as he could, locking the door again.

***

In the morning, Stiles didn't want to leave the room, but he knew he had to, eventually. He was quite hungry and, even more pressingly, he had to make a case for his piano. Beg if he had to.

He dressed himself properly and went out.  

The women from the night before were bent over the table plucking chickens, their long sleeves rolled up.

“Good morning, princess.“

“Don't you wish we could sleep in like this, Ada.“

“Here's your breakfast, lad. Eat up,“ Maisie pointed towards a plate on the edge of the stove.   

 

Derek was nowhere to be seen.

Stiles' eyes searched across the room in curiosity.

“If you're wondering where your husband is, he's in the fields trying to save what can be saved after the storm.“

Stiles was not wondering that at all.

“Shush, Maisie. Perhaps he doesn't understand you.“

She took the plate from the stove and shoved it into Stiles' hands. “Eat.“ She made eating motions, bringing her puffy hand towards her mouth several times.

“He could use some meat on those bones.“

Stiles sat on the bench in the corner and started eating, too hungry to be upset.

“What does it matter, he can't hear us, can he? I can talk until my tongue falls off, won't make any difference.“

The women chuckled at that, throwing surreptitious glances at Stiles.

“Can he hear us at all, Ada?“

“He plays the piano, doesn't he? He must hear something.“

“Well. It's a shame he's mute, we won't hear a thing when the boss plows him into the mattress!“

Uproarious laughter.

***

Stiles walked out after the breakfast, searching for Derek.

He roamed the muddy fields and rough woods where several children were playing, running from tree to tree and singing.

One of the girls ran towards Stiles.

“Hello. I'm Belle. It means beautiful in French. What's your name?“

Stiles took out his pad. _Stiles_.

“Does your name mean anything, Stiles?“

Stiles shook his head.

The girl looked like she was sorry for him. “Maybe it means beautiful in some other language. You do have pretty eyes. Will you play with us, Stiles? You can be a prisoner and I can be a warrior that saves you from the ugly pirates.“

Stiles smiled at her and wrote on his pad again. _Do you know where Derek is?_

“Yes! I'll show you. He'll be glad that I brought you to him.You're Derek's husband, aren't you? Come, Stiles, come!“

She ran in front of him, her plaits and dresses flapping after her, singing some silly song in half voice. “Mr. Derek, I bring you your husband!“ she shouted when they approached the fields.

The man in question stood next to the fences with an axe in his hands, marking the top of each post with a cross.

“Thank you, Belle. Go away now,“ he said absently. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat off his forehead.

Derek and Stiles stood alone now.

“Well?“

Stiles took out his pad. _My piano?_

Derek looked annoyed. His jaw flexed in impatience. “I have work to do. And the land's still soaked.“

Stiles wiped off the pad and wrote again. _I need my piano as soon as possible. The sea water will ruin it!_

Derek threw his axe down. “Maybe next week.“

Stiles was livid. _Too late_.

“Have you settled in all right? Have you got everything you need?“

Stiles looked at him curiously. _No, I don't have everything I need. I want my piano_. But Derek couldn't hear Stiles' voice and Stiles didn't think he should write.

“Good, good,“ Derek said, even though Stiles didn't nod.

That night, when Derek came to his room after Stiles had foolishly forgotten to lock it, Stiles pushed him outside and slammed the door to his stunned face.

***

The breakfast next morning was a sordid affair.

There was a committee waiting for him at the table; Nessie, Ada and Maisie smiled inanely, and Derek frowned over his mug.

Stiles sat across from them before a plate of oatmeal which he presumed was for him.

The committee eyed one another, clearly not knowing how to start.

Stiles started eating, paying them no heed.

“I remember when I got married. Phew! That was an adventure. I brought a knitting needle with me in bed. George sure hasn't ever forgotten our wedding night!“

“Nessie!“

“I poked him straight into his business. I beat the one-eyed snake!“

Derek squirmed uncomfortably.

“Enough, Nessie!“ Ada yelled. Then she addressed Stiles, in a voice she imagined was soothing and teaching. It wasn't. “What Nessie, and we all here, want to say, there are certain... things that married people do. Those are nice things. For example, holding hands. That's nice. And they sleep together in the same bed. It's only proper.“

“Maybe we should bring some paper and draw it for him.“

“Maisie, for a thousandth time, he can hear us. He just won't talk. And that's fine, I'm sure after a few good meals and some healthy time with his husband, he'll change his mind.“

Stiles dropped his spoon and looked at them in disdain.

“Look what a fine husband you have here. Many people would want to be in your place, I'll tell you that. Poor girl Ginny has been properly besotted for years. Years!“

 

Derek cleared his throat. “That's enough. I think he understood. Leave now.“

The ladies gaggled out of the room. One of them patted Stiles' shoulder in reassurance on her way out.

After several moments of silence, Derek unclasped his hold of the mug and brought his hand closer to Stiles' where it was lying still next to the plate. He went to cover it with his own, but Stiles jerked back, sending the plate off the table, oatmeal splattering noisily over the stone floor.

***

_The voice you hear is not my speaking voice, but my mind's voice. I have not spoken since my father and I buried my mother on a hill near the river. No one knows why, not even me. My father used to say it was a dark talent and the day I took it into my head to stop breathing would be my last._

_The strange thing is, I don't think myself silent, that is, because of my piano._

***

The next night Derek knocked on the door.

 _Improvement_ , Stiles thought. So he opened it.

He immediately took out his pad. _The piano_.

“I'll get you your piano, don't worry. Is that what you want?“

Stiles nodded.

“All right,“ Derek said and counted himself victorious.

He started undressing.

Stiles' mouth curled in contempt. He put his hand on the man's chest and pushed lightly.

“What?“

Stiles shook his head and pushed again.

“What, you won't sleep with me unless I bring you the piano?“

Stiles looked onto the ground. _I won't sleep with you any which way, but you can believe what you want_.

“Who do you think you are, little thing, to blackmail me like this? You belong to me.“

Stiles took his pad again. _NO_.

Derek ground his teeth in anger. He did storm out of the room, though, his shirt untucked.

The next morning over breakfast, Stiles heard in great detail from Ada how some people could be proper ungrateful and couldn't see how good they were having it. Shame shame shame.

***

Stiles took to spending time with the children.

He wasn't sure who their parents were because the entire village seemed to take part in their upbringing. Some of them didn't have parents, just like him. Stiles entertained them as much as he could. He had a favorite -- it was Belle, a little seven year old girl with raven black locks and wide, shiny eyes on her pale, angelic face. Belle was talkative and imaginative, blinking in awe when Stiles would show her his riches from his boxes. He liked to brush and plait her hair while she played with his precious brushes.

He let her inside his room and allowed to sleep on his bed, which made Belle feel very privileged. It also turned out to be an excellent shield against Derek, who would come inside and gloom upon seeing Belle curled up in Stiles' fine linens.

There were seven of them in total, all various ages, three boys and four girls, if you didn't count the Maori children. They had organised school activities but they hated the teacher, Mrs. Morag, and Sunday catechisis with the Reverend, which they escaped several times to learn signs with Stiles instead, to their teachers' dismay. Belle was a particularly fast learner. They were fascinated by his muteness and thrilled with the games he played with them.

Once they watched him draw the piano keyboard on the kitchen table with a white chalk and stared seriously while Stiles played his imaginary instrument in silence.

“Mother says he is insane just like crazy Peter.“

Stiles had no idea who Peter was.

“Peter's not insane, silly, he's just miserable,“ the children whispered.

“Stiles isn't miserable! He is funny.“

But then Derek burst inside and they scattered like squirrels.

They peeked through the windows from the outside, looking at Derek watching Stiles' swaying back.

Anyway that, the drawn keyboard on the kitchen table, seemed to be a drop that spilled the glass, for the next day, the piano was brought from the beach.

***

It was incidentally also the same day when Stiles had met Peter for the first time.

At first Stiles had mistaken him for one of the natives because he had tanned skin and tattoos in similar fashion.

But only three of the men were Maoris of the four who had hauled his piano on their backs, grunting and sweating like pigs as they lowered it gently onto the ground.

Stiles fluttered around, waiting nervously to assess the damage.

 

Derek stopped in front of Peter. “How much do I owe you?“

Instead of replying, the man looked at Stiles, nodding in greeting.

Stiles looked away.

The man spoke eventually. “Nothing.“

Derek huffed in annoyance. “Come on, say your price, Peter. You were the only one foolish enough to do this. I won't be in your debt.“

Peter seemed to think for a few moments. “All right. I want the ten acres on the south border.“

Derek's reaction was instantaneous. “No.“

“You told me to name the price.“

“I'm not giving you any land, Peter! You'll just give it back to them. I know it, and you know it. You can take the goddamn piano, I don't care for it anyway. My answer is no.“

 

Derek was already turning to storm off when Stiles grabbed his arm, shaking his head frantically.

“Let go of me,“ he growled, but Stiles refused, clinging to him.

“Let go of me!“ Derek shook him off and Stiles fell into the mud. “What's the use of a piano to a mute, anyway. Not much use from you at all! But god loves dumb creatures, so why not me.“

Stiles heard the sharp intake of breath coming from Peter.

He couldn’t remember much what happened afterwards.

***

After another lonely night, to Stiles’ infinite relief, he was served chicken liver and goat cheese for breakfast – a treat he did not expect. He expected to be out of mercy.

The ladies gossiped as usual.

“Did ya hear, gals, Peter asked the boss for a piece of land! Pfttt.“

Ada snorted and continued churning the butter. “He could've asked for a pot of gold just as well, for all the good that it would do to him. Derek would never give him any land. And he very well knows it.“

“Crazy bastard.“

“Lunatic. No one with a right mind would agree to carry that wretched piano up the mountain for this spoiled brat anyway.“

Stiles choked on the cheese a little.

“But Maisie, the land was Peter's too, before.“

“You shut your mouth, silly old cow. Boss is right, Peter's just crazy now. Who knows what he would do with it. Return it to the natives, for all we know, and where would that leave us, I ask you? What happened, happened, life goes on. But not for Peter. Living alone, talking with the natives, eating with them, hunting with them. With the murderers! Of their family! He barely speaks English anymore. He runs his mouth in Maori like it's his mother tongue! Boss is good to him, I say. He has his hut, he needs no more.“

“I'm just saying, it was his family, too. He had a right to it.“

“Better not let Derek hear you, gal. He's the boss now. He knows what he's doing.“

 

Stiles finished his breakfast and stepped outside.

It was still dull and overcast, but the land was a bit drier, and there were patches of hardened ground scattered about like rocks in a stream, so Stiles carefully jumped from one to the other, trying to keep himself clean for just a little while.

The children were chasing butterflies in the woods, hugging the tree trunks and giggling.

Stiles took Belle by the hand and showed her his pad. _Do you know where Peter lives?_

“Crazy Peter? Aye.“

_Can you take me to his house?_

The girl looked in awe at Stiles' pad and how swiftly his fingers deleted and wrote new words over it.

“Derek says we're not allowed there.“

_You don't have to go. Just show me his house. From afar._

The girl nodded. “I can do that. Okay, Stiles.“

Belle turned to leave, but Stiles held her gently back.

 _Thank you, Belle. You are the most beautiful princess_. And he drew her a big flower next to the words.

The girl giggled. “I'm no princess, Stiles! I am a warrior, and I am going to rule the world!“ she yelled, disappearing in a flurry of white frilly skirts, and Stiles smiled trying to keep up with her.

They meandered through the trees, Stiles' efforts to remain clean proving futile after only a few steps – he almost lost another shoe to the mud and Belle's skirts were completely ruined. He should take Ada's advice and wear higher boots in the future.

“There,“ the girl whispered and pointed to a small hut almost outside the settlement's borders, removed from the fields and other houses. “Everybody says that Peter is crazy, but I think he is just miserable.“

Stiles took Belle's tiny hand and pressed it against his cheek, eyes filled with questions. _How do you mean?_

She continued to whisper expressively. “Long time ago when the Hales took the land from the Maori, they got so mad they killed their entire family with their arrows in one horrible night, all except Derek and Peter who survived. And Peter wanted to leave after, he was sorry they had come to the Maori land and he refused to take it. Derek told him they had to, but Peter didn't want it, he said it was wrong. So Derek got mad and chased him away. Peter is friends with the Maori now and Derek hates him for it.“

Stiles smiled and kissed the girl's hand in gratitude, shooing her away with his arms.

She pressed her mouth close to his ear. “I'm not gonna tell,“ she declared, clearly thinking that Stiles being there was a transgression, her big dark eyes all serious and conspiratorial. Then she started running  back.

***

Stiles stood up and checked his clothes, brushing the specks of mud and random wrinkles with his hands.

Satisfied, he approached Peter's door and knocked. He guessed that the man would be surprised to see him and he wasn't wrong.

Peter stood there and held the open door with his hand, silent.

Stiles observed him curiously, inspecting a half-finished Maori tattoo on his face.

When the man remained silent and motionless, Stiles peeked under Peter's arm and saw the piano in the middle of the room. He crouched a little and stepped inside under Peter's arm, uninvited.

Peter turned to look at him in amazed wonder.

Stiles approached the piano and lifted the lid. He hovered next to it, caressing its varnished wood with soft strokes. His eyes filled with joy and spark.

_The strange thing is I don't think myself silent, that is, because of my piano._

 

“You can play, if you want,” Peter said suddenly.

Stiles looked at him expectantly.

Peter nodded.

Stiles didn't hesitate another second. He sat at the piano, his entire behavior altered, animated, joyful, excited. He started playing. "Gloomy Winter's Noo Awa".

 

An entire hour must have gone before he woke from his trance.

His eyes searched the room. Peter sat at the bed and stared back at him. Stiles blushed in embarrassment.

“You can come back tomorrow, if you want,“ the man said.

Stiles blinked. He took out his pad. _I can?_

The man shrugged. “I like listening to music.“

Stiles smiled. He nodded. He pushed his arm towards Peter who didn't know what to do with it so Stiles took Peter's rough hand where it was resting on his leg and shook it.

***

And that was how it went on every single day from that day on.

Stiles would come to Peter's hut around three every day, right after lunch, when everybody was too sleepy or tired to do much else than idly digest, either in their houses or on a stack of hay somewhere in the fields, and play for an hour. During that time Peter would walk quietly around or just sit and watch Stiles.

Stiles didn't mind.

An hour turned into two, or more, pretty early on.

 

Once when he was playing, Peter’s hand landed on the collar of his shirt and Stiles stopped.

Peter’s knuckles brushed lightly against his skin. “Stiles. Will you – will you give me piano lessons?”

Stiles looked up at him. Stiles loved teaching. _Why not?_

He moved his chair to the left in silent agreement and looked at Peter again expectantly. The man brought his chair over and sat next to him.

Stiles guessed he could start with children’s tunes. So with fresh vigor, Stiles launched into “Hey Diddle Diddle” and let Peter stare at the side of his head instead of his playing hands.

_Oh well._

***

One day when Stiles was happily trodding through the woods towards his piano, he overheard voices - the women were talking and washing in the nearby creek. They were talking about him, he knew. He hid behind a tree and listened.

“What happened to his father?“

“One day when Stiles and his father were singing together in the forest, a great storm blew up out of nowhere. But so passionate was their singing that they did not notice, nor did they stop as the rain began to fall, and when their voices rose for the final bars of the duet, a great bolt of lightning came out of the sky and struck his father so that he lit up like a torch... And at the same moment he was struck dead, Stiles was struck dumb! He- never-spoke-another-word.”

“You are so full of nonsense, Ada! I heard he died of chickenpox.”

“Stiles stopped talking when his mother died, not his father, you goat. Struck by a lightning, not a chance. You sure do know how to tell a story, Ada!”

Stiles turned around and leaned against the tree. He shut his eyes. He heard his own voice in his head clearly. In his head, he could speak. _Hello, mother. Hello, father. I’m fine. I’m playing the piano. And I have a friend. Her name is Belle. She looks like my younger sister. I love you. Rest in peace._

 

He was angry when Peter let him inside his hut.

“What happened?” the man wanted to know immediately.

Stiles bit his lips. He thought he was better at camouflaging his emotions. He shook his head and refused to look up.

“What happened?” Peter’s voice was softer this time.

Stiles didn’t want to say.

“Do you want to play, darling?”

Stiles blinked at the endearment. He nodded. He smiled tentatively at Peter, even though he felt like he probably shouldn’t.

Through the haze of his playing trance, he could feel Peter’s eyes on him.

It made him feel better.

When he finished, he took out his pad. _The piano is out of tune._

Peter nodded.

***

“What is it that you do there?” Derek growled.

Stiles didn’t even bother to take out his pad, gesturing the piano playing with his fingers instead.

Derek snorted. “You’re even a bigger fool if you believe for one second that Peter is interested in piano playing,” he said, undressing himself. “He just wants to annoy me. Make me give him land. But I’d rather burn that piano to ashes, you hear? Those animals killed our family and he is siding with them. With them! He has more holes on his body from their arrows than a sieve and he still… He's an oaf. Did you know he can't read? He used to know, but he's forgotten.”

Stiles ignored him.

Derek did look pissed and properly annoyed.

Stiles guessed that if it really was Peter’s end game, it could be declared a success. But, Derek always looked annoyed, so Stiles wasn’t sure.

Stiles let Derek take off his shirt and then he took it, opened the window and threw it outside.

Derek glared at him in shock. “What are you doing?”

Stiles crossed his arms.

“Look – I know you’re probably a virgin—“

Stiles frowned.

“It’s better to just get it over with.”

Stiles took his chamber pot and tossed it at Derek’s head.

“All right! All right!” Derek shouted, covering his head with his hands, and the pot clanked onto the ground. “You’re insane! I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do here. Don’t you like me?”

Stiles looked at him with disdain.

“No. Well I suppose it takes time.”

***

Monday morning was cold again, although the spring sun had tried during the weekend to dry up the foliage and the bushes; the ground once again was mushy and sodden.

Stiles had gotten up earlier than normal, his teeth chattering with chill under the two goose down duvets. He always seemed to be cold here.

He went to the kitchen to help Nessie and Ada with the cooking just because it was so much warmer there – he usually evaded the place because of their relentless gossiping and foul mouths.

But soon enough they all dropped whatever they were doing and rushed outside because they heard commotion.

 

Two men came crashing out down a steep bush hill, tied to each other. Peter, the younger and stronger, was trying to break their fall by grasping hold of branches and shoots.

Each of Peter’s steps dislodged a fall of rocks, the crashing of the stones echoing through the valley.

Stiles started towards them to help, but Derek’s hand shot out and stopped him.

Finally, their fall was checked.

The old man was white haired, the front of his suit splattered with the debris of many meals.

He sat up feeling about for his glasses. He was blind. His eyes, though closed, wobbled and rolled, but Peter found the glasses for him.  One of the lenses had gone, the other was very dark. The old man fitted his handkerchief in the gap.

“What are you doing, Peter?” Derek bellowed. “You’ll break your fool neck!”

Peter stood. “This is Salvatore. He’s a piano tuner.”

The women started giggling, covering their mouths with handkerchiefs and whispering into each other’s ears.

“A piano tuner,” Derek repeated dryly.

 

“Klavierstimmer,“ the old man supplied in cracked voice. 

“Yes. Stiles’ piano needs tuning,” Peter added, seemingly unaware of Derek’s wrath.

Derek’s mouth twisted into an ugly snarl. “That piano isn’t Stiles’ any more, remember. And I can’t for the life of me imagine why you would want a tuned piano!”

When he started shouting, the women ran back into the house and Stiles tried to grab his hand, just to stop this nonsense even though he had no idea how. Derek shook him off.

“You find me a fool,” Derek told Peter in a more controlled voice.

Peter lifted the man on his back again and started crossing a huge scree to get to the woods.

Derek watched them leave. He turned towards Stiles, lifting his finger in warning. “Be careful. I won’t be made a fool.”   

Stiles bit his lips and rushed after Peter.

***

Inside Peter's hut the old man felt the piano. “Ah, a Broadbent. A fine instrument. I've not come across one here, or in the Islands where I have tuned some two hundred. Yes, they like their pianos there.”

Out of his pocket he took out a carefully wrapped tuning fork. He unwrapped the package, lifted the back and lid and started to tune. He sniffed the air.

Stiles and Peter watched in fascination.

The man sniffed close to the keys. “Scent? And salt of course.”

He worked on. “What will you play when it's tuned? What music do you play?”

Peter looked over at him from the meal he had started preparing, then at Stiles, smiling, then at the man again. “I can't play.”

The blind man stopped working. “You don't play?”

“No, I can't. I'm going to learn.”

The man went back to work somewhat depressed by the futility of the venture, unaware that Stiles and Peter were sharing smiles behind his back.

 

When all was settled and Salvatore was safely returned home, Peter got back to an empty house and a slash of sunlight falling across the piano.

Thousands of particles of dust became visible floating in the air.

Peter took off his shirt. He noticed the dust on the piano and used his shirt as a duster. Under it, he was naked.

As he wiped the smooth wood he became aware of his nakedness. His movements became slower until he was no longer cleaning, but caressing.

***

The following day, Belle joined Peter and Stiles for their piano lesson. Peter doubted she was sent by Derek, but Stiles seemed to want the girl’s company.

“Stiles says he cannot stand to play children tunes anymore so I’m to do scales.”

Stiles walked inside and sat on Peter’s bed.

It was unsettling.

“I hope you’ve scrubbed your hands,” Belle said and began a scale.

“How do you know what Stiles says?” Peter didn’t know why he asked the girl that. He and Stiles communicated with no problem.

“Sometimes he writes, sometimes he shows me signs for letters and words. He taught me.”

The girl was a bit sulky when neither Stiles nor Peter paid attention to her. “You have to watch me where I put my fingers.”

Stiles signed to Belle. She interpreted it to Peter. “He wants to see what you can do.”

“I’d rather not play. I want to listen and learn that way.”

Stiles signed to Belle again. The girl was a bit nonplussed. “No! I want to stay.”

After a few minutes of bickering, Belle finally left.

***

Stiles turned to Peter. _What do you want?_

“I want to listen to you play. I want—it’s your piano, you know. I would give it back to you if you want. But then, you wouldn’t come here. I wouldn’t get to listen to you. So—“

Stiles nodded, understanding.

He simply sat on the chair and started playing in reply.

Peter sat back on the bed, watching Stiles.

His cape on the hook was dripping a puddle onto the floor and there was a circle of drips around Stiles’ pants. He was totally absorbed in his piano music as he was on the beach, and a million times before.

Peter watched.

Stiles’ long white neck, still wet from rain, proved irresistible -- he came across the room and kissed him.

Stiles jumped up and fiddled.

Peter stood in front of the door. “Listen, there’s a way you can have your piano back. Do you want it back?”

Stiles eyed him suspiciously.

“Do you know how to bargain?”

Stiles smiled.

“You see, there are things I’d like you to do when you are here. While you play. Things I want to do. If you let me, you can earn it back. What do you think? One visit for every key?”

_Oh. Peter wants to play a game._

Stiles raised his eyebrows.

They were on a precipice, close to falling.

Stiles wanted to play. So he held up his finger and pointed to a black key.

“For every black one?”

Stiles turned, raising his head, nodding.

“That’s a lot less, half.” Peter was counting the keys and Stiles started for the front door. “All right, all right then, the black keys.”

Stiles smiled and sat back at the piano obediently. He started playing.

He stopped abruptly, indignantly, when Peter touched his neck.

“Play… Keep playing.”

After a moment, Stiles settled back and let Peter caress his arms, neck and shoulders while he played.

***

Peter bathed in a river hole. He was watched by a gathering of Maori, sometimes with great seriousness, at other times with hilarity. They passed between them his clothes, trying them on and mimicking him.

One of the older women, Hira, crouched close to the bank keeping up a steady line of inquiry. Her manner was relaxed, but focused and persistent. She smoked a pipe.

“I got the good wife for you. Peini. She pray good. Clean. Read Bible. You sleep her Peini. She chief daughter.”

“No, no bible readers,” Peter said and continued good-humouredly washing.

“Why? We need you pakeha clever.You sleep her.”

“I already have someone.”

“You lie, mongrel. You have no one. Jun look at him, mongrel. Your wife, where she? You have spare wife here Peini.You get rnana for that. Our chief four wives.”

Peter shook his head bemusedly. As he got out of the river, Hira slapped him in retaliation.

***

Stiles sat at the piano. He was shy and nervous.

He turned to Peter who nodded.

Stiles began to play.

Peter kept his head bowed, but as the playing became more confident, he raised his head to watch. He sat at a far corner of the room apparently enjoying the whole vision of this boy at his piano.

After some time Peter, affected by the music, took his chair to a closer position and from an opposite angle.

Stiles glanced up as he felt Peter passing behind him. He seemed satisfied to watch. His attention finally focused on Stiles’ neck as it bent further or closer to the piano.

Again Peter shifted his chair, taking it round the back and to the other side of the piano. As he moved, Stiles watched warily. From this position, he didn't try to touch him, but watched, enjoying his fingers moving on the keys and the small details of motion on Stiles’ face.

Twice he closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

Peter was experiencing an unpracticed sense of appreciation and lust. When his eyes were closed, Stiles glanced at him with curiosity and suspicion.

It went on and on.

***

One day, Peter was sitting next to the window, his elbow on the sill, his head turned away.

“Lift your pants.”

Stiles stopped playing.

He turned to Peter. He thought about it, then slowly lifted his pants a little to show his boots.

“Lift it higher.”

Stiles pulled the pants up fractionally so the tops of his boots were exposed.

Peter nodded and Stiles started to play again, not so confidently as before.

Peter moved close and he went down on his knees to watch Stiles’ feet on the pedals.

“Higher.”

Stiles didn't hear.

“Lift them higher.”

He stopped and lifted his pants to his knees. He looked at Peter with ill-disguised mockery.

Peter was enthralled with his legs, or what he could then see of them. He moved back to watch them from behind. He was lying on the ground, head propped on his arm.

Stiles’ slim stockinged calves worked the pedals. One of the stockings had a small hole through which his white skin showed.

***

Wednesday. Stiles’ finger played the fourth black key from the left hand side, denoting lesson four.

“Undo your shirt. This part. I want to see your arms.”

Stiles was taken unawares.

He sat a moment unsure if he wanted to cooperate, then slowly he started to undo his buttons. He pulled his arms out of the sleeves. Underneath he wore a worn-in undergarment.

His arms were so white they seemed transparent. A delicate network of blue-green veins crisscrossed up the soft underpart of his arms. A dark growth of hair in his armpit suggested a shadowy depth. The back of his hands, normally white, were quite tanned in comparison.

“Play.”

Peter drew his chair close. Gently he placed his hand on the soft underpart of Stiles’ forearm, forgoing the firm muscles on the top.

Stiles stiffened and pulled away.

Peter gripped the arm.

“Two keys.”

Stiles continued to play.

Slowly Peter moved his hand higher towards Stiles’ shoulder.

 

Clearly unnerved, Stiles changed the music to something brisk, almost comical.

Peter felt suddenly ridiculous, his mood broken. He took his hand away and moved back to the window, hurt.

Stiles felt victorious. He was pleased to have won himself a round in this game. He couldn’t have been bothered by Peter’s hurt.

The man was ridiculous, caressing his arms like that.

***

“How are the lessons going?” Derek asked.

Stiles nodded enthusiastically.

“He’s getting on all right?”

Stiles nodded again.

“Good.”

When Stiles left, Ada leaned towards Derek. “He seems quieted down. Is he more affectionate?”

Derek looked after Stiles unable to answer.

The lambing season was in full swing and Derek was on hand night and day, keeping a close eye. After a few slow winter months, most ewes now needed a helping hand so Derek took to sleeping in the lambing shed.

Stiles couldn’t help but feeling relieved. Other than that, he felt there was little he owed Derek. 

***

Peter secured a chair against the door while Stiles was removing his shirt. He sat at the piano, hugging himself against the chill.

As Peter passed, he knocked Stiles’ jacket off the chair back. He picked it up and took it across to his seat by the window. He nodded and Stiles began to play.

Peter fingered the still warm jacket; he lifted it up and smelled it.

Stiles turned around and stopped playing, suddenly appalled by this odd sensual pleasure taking. He held out his hand for the jacket, his expression stern and censorious. He indicated he should return it to the chair back.

Peter ignored him.

Stiles stood and came over to him. He pulled the jacket from Peter’s hands and replaced it across the chair back, but as he turned to sit, Peter was beside him. He pulled the straps of his undershirt down, exposing his shoulders and some of his chest.

Stiles immediately stood, but Peter was much stronger and man-handled him across to the bed.

Stiles struggled seriously - this was much, much more than he was expecting.

“Stiles. Four keys.“

Stiles looked at him. He held up his long fingers up and mouthed five.

“I just want to lie.“

Stiles shook his head and mouthed again five.

"All right, all right. Five.“

Stiles no longer struggled. He was stiff and still.

Peter seemed intoxicated by the smell and presence of his skin and he became soft and gentle. He kissed and touched him with feeling and affection.

Then, suddenly aware of Stiles’ stillness, he too became still.

He pulled himself up to see whether Stiles’ face betrayed his feelings. Stiles seized this opportunity to return to the uncertain sanctuary of his piano.

From the bed, Peter watched him run a hand noiselessly over the polished ivory keys, a gesture betraying affection never afforded to him.

Peter got up. He shut the piano lid forcing Stiles to remove his hand.

Stiles immediately stood and dressed, marking hurtfully Peter’s ownership of his piano.

***

The children and their teachers were preparing a school play for a week.

Derek was in his best shirt and trousers, preparing the horse and cart.

Belle was inside in her finished angel costume, singing softly to herself while Stiles undid the long strands of her plaits and separated them to comb.

Derek came in to put on his jacket, but the collar was all tucked in. Stiles automatically adjusted it for him, settling it around his neck.

His touch, meant practically, strangely affected Derek. In an impassioned impasse, meant gallantly, he tried to kiss Stiles’ finger tips.

The gesture faltered as Stiles, surprised, jumped back.

***

People were arriving at the school hall.

One family was being ferried through the mud in a wheelbarrow. Inside, some people were already seated in the hall.

Several other angels had arrived, and they, like Belle, were ushered backstage.

The Sunday School teacher was gathering the children together, reminding them of the order of songs, checking their hair, and such. The local dramatic society were also preparing themselves.

One of the women was peeping through a hole in a make-shift curtain to watch the townspeople seating themselves.

“They're bringing in extra seats!”

Despite this, there would still be only a maximum of fifty people. Ten or so of them were Maoris in their best European dress.

Everyone was chatting at their seats, except the Maori guests who waited solemnly. Ada was organizing the placement of the new seats.

 

Peter arrived.

“Look who's here, the musical Mr. Hale. What will we have tonight, Peter, ‘Twinkle, twinkle’?" a man in the crowd asked.

Peter smiled and blinked.

The teasing continued as he scanned the room for Stiles.

“’Mary had a little lamb' or a polka, come on, Peter, what's it to be?” another man wondered.

Ada hustled over to Peter and pushed him in front of her towards Nessie and the piano. “Mr. Peter, do come and turn pages.”

Peter looked wildly about for rescue. “I can't read music, I have just begun.” He backed off from Nessie whose face dropped in disappointment.

Peter spotted Stiles. He was eager to take a seat near him. He took the seat next to Stiles but one. He sat smiling and blinking. The teasing continued, behind him.

Stiles put his hand on the seat and shook his head, indicating that he was saving it for Belle.

Peter was rebuffed and looked across at Stiles who ignored him.

The main lights were put out and everyone returned to their places.

In the dark, Derek shyly took Stiles’ hand in his. Peter watched Derek squeezing Stiles’ hand and, quite out of control, stood and left, accompanied by a chorus of shhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Satisfied, Stiles watched him go.

***

The next day, Stiles went to the piano, upset that Peter had again left a plate on top of it.

Peter intercepted him, stepping several times between Stiles and the piano.

Stiles saw the game and stood still. He stepped aside.

Stiles removed the plate, gently, lovingly wiping the surface underneath.

There was a sulky irritation in the way Peter watched him.

“I have been waiting. You are very late.”

Stiles started to play.

Peter watched then looked away.

“I don't want you to play. I just want you to sit.”

Stiles kept playing until he had finished. Without looking at Peter, he held up two fingers against the piano.

“No, not two keys,” Peter said angrily.

Stiles started playing again. Peter felt powerless. He no longer admired Stiles’ absorption with the piano -- he was jealous of it.

“Two keys then!”

Stiles stopped playing. There was an insolence or casualness in the way he regarded Peter.

Peter pulled Stiles’ chair back from the piano.

This upset Stiles, as much of his confidence was associated with the instrument.

Peter kissed him passionately on the mouth.

Stiles pulled back, Peter persisted; he was desperate and romantic.

Stiles left.

***

In the beginning of October, Derek tried to negotiate with the natives. With Peter interpreting, he talked with a group of Maoris at the base of a bush covered hill.

The Maoris sat behind a small representation of the hill marked out with twigs on the ground.

The atmosphere was tense.

Pointing to the places, the Maori negotiator spoke.

Peter waited until he was finished and interpreted. “The bathing waters, the caves, that house, the remains of our ancestors are all part of this land. Explain it to the man, Peter.”

Derek muttered to Peter over his speech. “What do they say? Are they selling? Offer the blankets for half the land.”

Derek held up his ten fingers and then two more. “T-w-e-l-v-e.”

Peter translated. “He'll give you twelve blankets for half the land.”

The Maoris looked carefully at the quality of the blankets, noting the depth of the weave and the strength of the wool. They shook their heads as they discussed them.

Quietly, Derek whispered to Peter. “Offer the guns.”

Peter observed him, stunned. “I don’t know why I agreed to this. I don’t know why you are like you are.”

Derek ground his teeth, chest heaving in incoming rage, but the Maori negotiator spoke again.

“No more talk, we won't sell the land. I will trade you pigs, that is all.”

The Maori all got up and left, chanting, messing up the twigs before they disappeared.

 

Derek turned to Peter. “And how do you propose we keep on living here? Take care of the people, keep them fed?”

Peter frowned. “At this point, you have more land and cattle than them. How do they keep on living, keep themselves fed? It was a wrong thing to do, coming here. It’s our fault – we are to be blamed for the deaths of our loved ones.”

“You’re insane.”

Peter and Derek walked through the bush, Derek laden down with his blankets, red-faced and irritable.

“What do they want it for? They don't cultivate it, burn it back, anything. How do they even know it's theirs?”

Peter stopped as he came to a freshly placed fence post. “Not everything’s about owning. They were born on this land. It’s like asking why your mother is your mother.”

Derek wound down his complaints, watching Peter anxiously.

Peter walked down to the next one. He touched the freshly split post.

“I thought I might as well mark it out,” Derek said tentatively.

“Yes, why not.”

“Stiles says you're doing well with the piano?”

Peter kept walking from post to post.

“I'll have to come and hear you play. What do you play?”

“Nothing just yet.”

“No. Well I suppose it takes time.”

***

When Derek returned to the house, Stiles had cut a good sized cabbage in the vegetable patch. He threw it to Belle who missed, dropping it in a pool of mud, spattering her face and dress.

Stiles smiled and Belle who was about to cry gave the cabbage a big football beat towards him.

Stiles’ mouth fell open, but then he too kicked it and they began to dribble the mud caked cabbage towards the hut, all the time signing playful insults.

“Peter can't play a damn thing,” Derek said. “Is that right he can't play a thing? We're going to lose that land, the way he was carrying on over it. Is he musical? You've got to teach him a song. Something simple.”

Belle had her foot on the cabbage and she nudged it off behind her.

It rolled down the hill.

Derek couldn't help but notice. “What's that?” He followed the cabbage down the hill where he scraped some of the mud off.

“This thing's been knocked to pieces.”

***

Belle peeked through Peter’s window.

Inside, Stiles as ever charted his progress on the black keys. Eleven. He turned to Peter for instructions. 

Peter was not himself. He was sulky and distant.

“Do what you like. Play what you like.”

Stiles was perplexed by this turnabout of behavior.

A little uncertainly, he set about his playing. After a little he too turned to see what Peter was doing.

He was not there.

Stiles was surprised then anxious as he feared the deal might be off when there were so few keys to go.

He started to play again, but his anxieties proved too great. He stopped and listened. He looked out the window, where Belle was mucking about in the yard.

He walked to Peter’s bedroom, listened, then opened the door.

Peter stood naked in the middle, looking at him.

Stiles was taken aback.

“I want to lie together without clothes on. How many would that be?”

Stiles held up ten fingers -- an impossibly high number of keys.

Peter nodded.

Stiles was surprised. He didn't expect him to agree. Stiles checked again, holding up his hands.

“Yes, ten keys.”

Hesitantly, Stiles started to undress. He lay down.

Peter lay, very still, on top of him.

Belle was outside walking on sticks and logs trying to make sure she never put her foot on the ground, bored out of her mind. She hated when Stiles came to give Peter piano lessons. To her, that meant hours without attention from Stiles, hours of waiting.

 She looked over at the house suddenly aware that the piano playing had stopped again.

She investigated the mystery peeping through the various cracks and holes in the loosely built hut.

Her vision was always only parts of bodies; the venture was one of challenge and curiosity.

***

That afternoon, while Derek was overseeing the wood cutting, Belle came to him and said:

“I know why crazy Peter can’t play the piano.”

“Get away, or a splinter will catch you”, Derek said absently.

“Stiles never gives him a turn.”

Derek stopped and looked at her.

“He just plays whatever he pleases, sometimes he doesn’t play at all.”

“And when is the next lesson?” Derek asked.

“Tomorrow.”

***

The next day was very windy, the tops of trees thrashed by fierce gusts of wind and some smaller branches crashed to the ground.

Stiles’ pants and long cape flapped uncontrollably. Belle's smaller cape stood out on end. Birds flew in mad wind-battered courses, swooped up then strangely drawn down.

Stiles and Belle arrived at Peter's place only to see the piano emerge from the hut carried by six Maori men, one of whom did nothing but walk beside it "plonking" the keys.

Another group of Maoris sat cross-legged on the verandah playing draughts.

Panicked, Stiles hurried down the hill to the hut. Belle followed behind.

 

Inside the hut, Hira, the old woman from the bathing spot, was smoking her pipe.

Stiles entered, distraught, and indicated what he had seen. His face was flushed and whipped by the wind. He was much more expressive than normal.

“I am giving the piano back to you. I've had enough.  The arrangement is making you a whore and me wretched. I want you to care for me, but you can't.”

Peter sat down on a chair and prepared to eat, somewhat ignoring Stiles.

Stiles was confused, not quite believing the situation. He watched Peter for some kind of confirmation.

“It's yours, leave, go on, go!” Peter raised his voice for the first time since Stiles had met him.

Stiles was off balanced by the reversal of attitudes, surprised too, that he didn't want to go.

He did not want to go.

But Belle was fast to leave, and Stiles followed to organize and protect his piano on the journey.

The piano was finally his.

***

As Stiles climbed out of the small valley surrounding Peter's hut, he stopped and walked back to look down at Peter and his hut, in the exact same manner that he once looked at his piano from the cliff-top above the beach.

Peter was throwing the scraps of his meal to his dog. He did not look up.

***

Derek, on his way to Peter, saw the piano bearers and Stiles way below him in the bush. He scrambled down a steep slope towards them.

“Stop right there. This isn't yours. What are you doing with the piano?” Derek asked stiffly.

Belle looked at Stiles. “He's given it to us.”

Out of breath, Derek spat. “Huh. You're very cunning, Stiles, but I've seen through you, I'm not going to lose the land this way. Wait here!”

And he was off, pounding on down through the bush.

 

Hira was sitting on the front step of Peter's place, blocking Derek’s easy access.

“Peter sick, he don't wanna see nobody. You got Tupeka for the Hira?”

Derek went around to a side window in Peter’s bedroom. Peter was sitting on the bed, but lay back as he heard Derek coming about the side of the house.

Derek opened up the window.

“I don't think you should have given up the piano. I will make sure you are properly taught, with music written on to sheets and...”

“I don't want to learn.”

“You don't want to learn.”

“No.”

“And what does this do to our bargain? I cannot afford the piano if you mean me to pay.”

“No, no payment. I have given it back. I don't want it.”

“Well, I doubt I want it very much myself.”

“It was more to your husband that I gave it.”

“Well, thank you, I expect he will appreciate it,” Derek said. “So that is agreed on?”

Peter nodded.

Derek closed the window.

 

Hira wandered stiffly into Peter’s room. She sat on the edge of his bed. “You make big mistake Peter. In first place you should swap land for husband. Now look, he gone, you no land, no music box, you got nothing.”

***

Inside Derek’s house, Stiles had lifted the top of the piano and was peering in while playing notes to check tune and damage.

“Is it all right? Aren't you going to play something?” Derek wanted to know.

Stiles pulled up a chair and sat himself at the piano. He rubbed his hands and placed them lightly on the keys.

Out of habit, he turned over his left shoulder where Derek waited cross-armed.

Quickly, Stiles removed his hands, stood and gestured Belle to play.

Belle proudly took up the seat. She pulled her lips in, trying to control her happiness. “What will I play?”

She looked to Stiles, who looked back through her not concentrating.

“Play a gig,” Derek said.

Belle looked at Stiles. “Do I know any gigs?”

“Play a song then,” Derek suggested.

Belle started a song.

Stiles walked past them out of the hut and Derek ignored his exit, moving up to lean on the piano. He could see Stiles through the hut window, wandering amidst the ghostly, blackened trunks.

Derek interrupted Belle’s singing with a sudden outburst. “Why won't he play it? We have it back, and he just wanders off!”

Belle stopped to watch Stiles through the window.

Stiles looked towards the house as the music stopped.

Derek shouted at Belle. “Keep playing!”

Stiles continued to walk, his face dark and puzzled. He stopped. His head stiffly, irresistibly, lifted and turned in the direction of Peter’s hut.

He peered deep into the bush as if attempting to penetrate a puzzle.

He thought and walked on.

***

The next day Stiles and his piano faced each other across the kitchen. A slit of light fell across the piano highlighting its rosy walnut wood.

Stiles’ expression was critical and distant.

Taking a cloth, he began to clean and polish the piano. His finger held down one of the keys and there was an old inscription on its side -- a small heart, and an arrow. From his father to his mother.

Putting the cloth aside, he sat at the piano to begin playing.

He started with wholehearted feeling, his eyes closed, but before long, he was surprised by a moving reflection across the piano and he jerked, glancing over his shoulder.

He stopped and began again. But once more a reflex had him glance across his left shoulder and he paused in his playing.

Disquieted, he started again and again he looked away. He stopped, confused, unable to go on, unable to get up, one hand on the lid and one on the piano keys.

***

When Stiles entered Peter's hut, he was breathless, announcing his presence by simply being there, standing there.

Peter came through from the bedroom.

Seeing Stiles, he was aloof, suspicious and his blinking became pronounced.

“So what brings you here? Did you leave something? I have not found anything.”

Stiles did not respond.

At last, he looked at Peter and his look had a vulnerability and frankness that took Peter off guard.

Stiles shook his head.

“The piano is not harmed? It arrived safely? Would you like to sit? I am going to sit.”

Stiles did not sit. He stood immobilized.

Peter attempted to maintain his casual charade. He poured a tea.

He turned to Stiles about to speak, but stopped, unmanned by a new fragility to his strength. He blinked rapidly.

“Stiles, I am unhappy because I want you, because my mind has seized on you and thinks of nothing else. This is how I suffer, I am sick with longing. I don't eat, I don't sleep. If you do not want me, if you have come with no feeling for me, then go!”

Peter walked roughly towards the door and opened it, his softness turned suddenly cruel.

“Go! Go NOW! Leave!”

Stiles was stung by his change of tune.

He took a step towards Peter and eyes filling with tears of anger, hit him hard across the face.

 

Peter’s nose began to bleed – yet his face slowly lit up as if Stiles had spoken words of love.

Stiles was flushed, shocked. The two faced each other at this very moment of profound awareness of each other, profoundly equal.

With each new breath, with every moment that their eyes remained locked together, the promise of intimacy was confirmed and reconfirmed and detailed until, like sleepwalkers who did not know how they came to wake where they did, they were standing next to each other and beginning to kiss each other, the lips, the cheeks, the nose.

There was nothing practiced about their tenderness, only their feelings and emotions guided their instincts. Peter’s face crumpled with the exquisite pain of his pleasure. Stiles cradled his head to his chest. Peter struggled through his shirt anxious to touch his skin.

***

Outside, Derek surveyed the hut suspiciously. Peter's dog growled as he climbed on to the small veranda. Carefully, Derek peered through some loosely slatted boards.

There were sounds inside which were worrying him. By standing on the seat he had found a spy-hole where he could see Stiles and Peter kissing, undressing.

He reeled back, furious.

He did not burst in, though.

Instead, Derek stepped up to look again; the fatal second look, the look for curiosity.

He watched Peter bare-chested, undressing Stiles; his buttons bursting, Stiles laughing. Peter touched him under his shirt, his undergarments – anywhere. Peter took himself down and pulled at Stiles’ underwear, showing Derek what he had never seen.

Derek watched, stepping down to peer lower as Peter buried his face into Stiles’ groin.

He did not seem to notice the dog licking his hand. Suddenly, he pulled his hand away and looked at it, wet with dog saliva; he wiped it on the boards and continued watching as if mesmerized.

***

Inside Peter's small bedroom, the raw dark boards contrasted with the softness, whiteness of Stiles and Peter’s bodies. Stiles’ hair was stuck to his cheek, his face flushed and his eyes bright.

Peter rolled his face across Stiles’ chest, gently, slowly savouring the flavour of his body.

Drunkenly, they continued their sex slowly, slowly. Stiles' breaths turned to low murmurs; these small sounds were extraordinarily moving to Peter whose face swooned with joy.

“What?  What?  Whisper, darling. Talk to me....”

***

As Stiles dressed, Peter sat on his bed, watching.

He was unhappy, thoughtful.

“Now you are going, I am miserable, why is that?”

He caught Stiles’ hand and drew him to him. “Stiles, I need to know, what will you do? Will you come again?”

Stiles was distracted, collecting his buttons from the floor, concerned at the time past, worried to dress and return.

“Wait! Don’t leave just yet. I don't know what you're thinking. Does this mean something to you? Hey?” Peter stroked a strand of hair behind his ear. “I already miss you. Stiles, do you love me?”

Stiles considered this question.

Clearly he didn't know, the question was more complex to him than to Peter.

Then, as if by way of answer, he kissed him strongly and sexually.

Peter pulled away, confused.

Stiles finished dressing.

Peter came up behind him to help with the buttons. “Come tomorrow. If you are serious, come tomorrow.”

Stiles turned and kissed him passionately, with the new born enthusiasm of someone who had just discovered their appetite for sex. Then as quickly as he began, he took his cape and went to leave.

“Tomorrow?”

He nodded and was gone.

***

The sky was dark and the wind was ballooning Stiles' cape, wrapping it up high around his thin frame. The tree tops were swaying furiously. Inside the bush it was dark and Stiles hurried up through the path towards Peter.

He was out of breath and glancing behind him as if to guard against followers, when directly in front of him Derek stepped out onto his path.

Stiles stopped short.

The look on Derek’s face was unlike any expression he had yet seen. His eyes did not look at Stiles, but all about him in a way more animal than human.

Stiles lowered his eyes and calling his bluff, walked steadily past him.

But Derek took his arm and spinning him back, pulled Stiles close.

Blind to all protest, Derek tried to kiss him.

Stiles struggled furiously.

His grip faltered and he stepped back, staring at Derek; then ran off down the hill.

Derek went after him. He was on top of him, clasping Stiles’ cape, pulling him towards himself.

Stiles slipped and fell to the ground.

Derek was upon him, pulling down his pants, touching his legs.

Stiles went quite still, which threw Derek long enough for him to scramble away, yet again Derek caught him and they rolled on the ground, Derek touching and kissing him, Stiles turning himself this way and that to avoid it.

Their mute struggle was finally broken by Belle calling up the path, distraught and in tears, her angel wings twisted about her waist.

Derek allowed him to get up then.

***

Belle and Stiles stood in the hut while fierce hammering could be heard outside. Derek was boarding over the windows, barricading them in.

Belle joined in the spirit of the exercise gaily pointing out any slats Derek had missed.

“Here, Mr. Hale!”

Stiles' face paled in the diminishing light. Exasperated by the threatened incarceration, he shook his head with anguish and moving to the piano, he lifted the lid and played several bars brutally and strongly.

He passed on to the bedroom, where he picked up the small hand mirror and looked at his face puckered with frustration. He touched his face and neck tenderly, then threw himself on the bed, face to the wall, his hands over his ears.

Belle stood over him. “You shouldn't have gone up there, should you? I don't like it and nor does Mr. Hale. We can play cards together.”

Stiles rolled over and looked at the girl with wet eyes.

Belle looked back, puzzled.

***

Derek stood guard while Stiles and Belle washed their clothes in the stream. Belle was taking the lead, soaping up the clothes, passing the garments to Stiles to rinse.

Stiles was distracted and as he took the clothes, he let them go and they floated off down the stream past Derek who tried to catch them but couldn't.

Two Maori boys continued the chase, enjoying the fun, thinking it a great adventure.

Derek was exasperated. “You are letting the clothes float off... They are floating off.”

Stiles stared off into the distance rocking lightly back and forth as he crouched on a stone. His shirt, unhitched, floated down the stream behind him.

“Stiles! Look out!” Belle shouted. She waded across to grasp yet another garment Stiles had let drift off.

The two of them went ahead into the hut which Derek shut and secured with a beam.

***

The following day Mrs. Morag stood circling in Derek’s small darkened house.

Stiles and Belle sat quietly together.

“Ohhh, it's so dark, it's like a dank cave,” the woman said. “It makes my skin creep!”

Derek came into the house with some logs and she followed him across to the fire.

“Derek, is it because of our play? Have the natives aggressed you?“ She continued following him to the door. “I have to say you have done the wrong thing here. You see, you have put the latch on the outside. When you close the door,” and she closed it, “it will be the Maori that lock you in, you see? With the latch on that side you are quite trapped.”

She walked inside and continued to the table where her basket full of clothes and packets of food had been left. She lifted it from the table and began to spread the cloth.

“We have just come from Peter’s hut and they have taken him over. It is no wonder he is leaving, he has got in too deep with the natives. They sit on  his floor as proud as Kings, but without a shred of manners.”

She unpacked the parcels of cakes and biscuits on plates, putting them about the table. “He is quite altered, as if they had been trying some native witchcraft on him. Well, tomorrow or the day after he will be gone.”

Derek looked at Stiles. “Peter is packing up?”

“Well he has nothing to pack, but he is leaving. And it is just as well.”

Stiles attempted to disguise his agitation. He moved to the piano and stroked it. He began to play.

Derek and Mrs. Morag watched Stiles at the piano. His playing developed until he was fully absorbed. The woman was intrigued despite herself.

“He does not play the piano as we do. He is a strange creature and his playing is strange like a mood that passes into you. You cannot teach that. One may like to learn, but that could not be taught.”

***

Stiles woke to sunlight streaming in on his face, more and more of it as Derek ripped the boards from the windows.

Belle ran about in her nightgown and boots, happy to be in the sunlight.

Stiles combed his hair.

Derek walked inside, packing food and fencing equipment.

He cleared his throat. “We must both get on. I have decided to trust you to stay here. You will not see Peter?”

Stiles nodded.

“Good, good. Perhaps with more trying you will come to like me?”

When Stiles didn’t react, Derek sighed and went on his business.

 

As soon as he left, Stiles hung out of the window, watching restlessly, scanning the bushline. A tiny Derek walked along the crest of the hill, eventually dropping out of sight.

Inside the hut, Stiles started to pace, anguished and frustrated. Impulsively, he picked up a knife from the kitchen table, opened the back of the piano and cut one of the keys loose.

Carefully, he turned it on the side, engraving in Victorian handscript.

DEAR PETER, YOU HAVE MY HEART. YOUR STILES.

***

Stiles found Belle outside and handed her the key wrapped and tied in white cotton.

Stiles signed what he wanted her to do.

“No!”

Stiles took her by the shoulders and shook a little, desperate, pleading.

Belle was stunned. She took the key and walking off, she turned and shouted. “We're not supposed to visit him.”

Stiles signaled her to go.

 

At the junction of the path to Peter’s hut was the beginning of Derek’s boundary fence.

At this place Belle had paused. She looked back to see if Stiles was watching; he was not – Belle turned sharply right so that she now followed alongside Derek’s boundary fence and away from Peter’s hut.

The fence appeared and disappeared behind hills.  Belle too dipped behind the hills to reappear on the other side. She sang a brisk song to herself.

The fence line seemed endless as the tired Belle trudged up yet another hill, but from there, she could see where the fence finished, half way up the crest of the next hill and at this point was Derek, driving in a new fence post.

“Stiles wanted me to give this to Peter.” She held out the cotton covered piano key.

Derek looked up.

“I thought maybe it was not a proper thing to do.”

Derek kept working, hammering the post into the earth.

“Shall I open it?”

“No!” Derek stopped and took the key, suspicious and uncomfortable. He slowly unwrapped it and turning it over, read it.

Squeezing the key in his fist, Derek staggered off in a daze. He dropped the piano key. He returned, picked up his open pack spilling the nails. In the end, he dropped the pack as well and left with only his axe.

Belle followed, confused.

The Maori picked up the abandoned key, turning it in their hands curiously.

***

The sky was dark and rain was falling heavily as Derek strode fast towards the hut, his axe swinging in his hand. Belle was far behind him, her angel wings sodden.

Derek burst into the hut, his wet hair splattered against his forehead, his face white.

Stiles looked up from his book, moving his hands from the table. Derek swung his axe hard. It sliced into the table, splitting a section off his book.

Stiles pushed his chair back.

Exasperated, Derek shouted. “Why? WHY? I trusted you!”

He pulled the axe out of the table and swung it at the piano. “WHY?”

Stiles ran forward to restrain him, but it sank deep into the wood. The struck piano let out a strange resonant moan.

“I trusted you, do you hear? I trusted you. I could love you.”

He took Stiles by the wrist.

“Why do you do this? Why do you make me hurt you? Do you hear? Why have you done it? We could be happy.”

Derek shook him violently.

“You have made me angry. SPEAK!!”

He pulled Stiles out of the hut, past the now terrified Belle.

“You shall answer for this. Speak or not, you shall answer for it!”

He dragged him out through the mud, towards the wood chop. It was raining hard.

Stiles realized where they were headed and suddenly he was very scared. He bucked and struggled, but Derek was infinitely stronger.

At the wood chop he broke free and crawled away through the woodchips and mud, but, axe in hand, Derek grasped him by the neck, then his hair, and pulled him backwards towards the cutting block.

There, he took Stiles’ right hand and held it in place with his boot, so that only Stiles’ index finger showed. Stiles’ head was held twisted between the wood chop and Derek’s leg.

“Do you love him? Do you?! Is it him you love?” Derek cried in anguish.

Stiles blinked, rigid with fear. The rain was driving down.

Belle screamed. “No, he says NOOOOOO!!!”

The axe fell.

Stiles’ face buckled in pain. Blood squirted onto Belle's white pinafore, her angel wings splattered in mud.

Belle screamed. “Stiles!!!”

Stiles stood. He looked faint, the hole where his finger was pulsing blood. He shook his hand, but seeing the blood, he put it behind his back, shocked.

He watched Belle, concerned and confused. Uncontrollably, his whole body started to shake and as if by reflex, Stiles began to walk.

Belle trotted parallel to him. “Stiles!”

Stiles kept walking blindly like his being depended on it. His face was ashen, his eyes fearful as he walked unseeingly straight into a large tree stump.

He sank into the mud.

Derek wrapped the finger in a white handkerchief and gave it to Belle, who backed away from him, terrified.

The girl was sobbing.

“Take this to Peter. Tell him if he ever tries to see Stiles again, I'll take off another and another and another!”

Their figures seemed tiny amidst the rain drenched skeleton forest.

***

Peter crossed through the pony paddock of the one room of the colonial school house. He had a piece off flax knotted around his waist to hold up his trousers. In the paddock were five very shabby looking rides. One huge old wagon horse, built to carry a whole family, down to a tiny sour looking Shetland. He'd have to pick one of them before he left. He was allowed to, since he had been caring for the school grounds for years.

But before that, he had a more pressing matter at hands. 

The schoolgirls had long, stained, once white pinafores and everyone wore boots that seemed too big, except the little boy who had the front cut off his boots so his toes could hang out.

Three little girls played a sedate game of skip rope, using a bush vine.

Peter watched, noticing in particular a little girl of about nine with a book. The boys and some of the wilder girls played Bull Rush.

The girl with the book went off to sit by a little stream. Peter followed and sat beside her.

“Can you read?” Peter asked her.

The little girl immediately closed the book and walked off. The girl kept walking, before she turned about to watch him from a safe distance.

Another little girl dropped down from a tree. “I can.”

“You can read?”

“Yes ... lots of things.”

The skipping group of children joined them.

“She can't read, she's my sister, I ought to know. Are those sweets?”

“I can read!”

“She can't.”

Peter held out the packet to the little girl.

“Don't give her one.”

Peter did anyway.

“She can't read.”

The little girl threw the lolly paper away, which one of the other girls picked up and sniffed. She handed it to the others.

“Mmm… Caramels!”

“Can you read?” Peter held out the piano key, and the big sister took it with great authority, her friends crowded behind her.

She frowned at the writing. She turned it over.

“Running writing, we haven't done that yet.”

“Myrtle can read it, her mother taught her.”

The key was snatched from big sister and given to Myrtle, the girl with the book. The others crowded around.

Myrtle frowned. “D e a r   P e t e r…”

The children looked over at Peter to see if this was right so far.

“Y o u… ... h a v e…”

“That's "My".”

“It’s not an M.”

“Yes, it is.”

In unison, the big sister and Myrtle read. “Dear - Peter - you - have – my – heart. Your Stiles.”

“It doesn't make sense,” Myrtle said.

The little girls read it again together. “That’s it. Dear Peter you have my heart your Stiles.  That's all.”

They all looked up at Peter.

“Say it again, just you,” he asked.

Everyone turned and listened to Myrtle.

“Dear Peter you have my heart, your Stiles.”

She gave a little 'Is that all?' gesture.

“Now you say it,” Peter pointed to the big sister.

“Dear Peter, you have my heart, your Stiles.”

Another little kid spontaneously recited the message. And so did another. Through all this, Peter kept his head down, shaking it in disbelief and shy happiness. He started to laugh with relief and pleasure.

The children thought it was something funny in the line and continued to repeat it, which each then appeared to give Peter fresh pleasure.

Meanwhile the smallest of the girls was quietly helping herself to the sweets.

***

Peter rode up to his house in the evening light, silly with happiness.

Hira came running out to meet him. “Peini, Peini, liddle gel. I seen her come up here, scream, scream, blood on her. Look bad... very bad.”

Peter jumped off his horse and strode into his hut.

Inside he found Belle crouching in a corner, her face white, tear stained and splattered with mud. Her angel wings were squashed behind her and blood stained.

On seeing Peter, she cried with renewed pain and relief.

“What has happened? Hush, hush, what is it?” he asked soothingly.

Belle thrust the wrapped finger at Peter. He took the blood soaked object and unwrapped it. The finger unraveled into his hand and he reeled back groaning, choking, about to be sick.

Belle yelled. “He says you're not to see Stiles or he'll chop him up!”

Angry, horrified, Peter cried. “What happened?”

But Belle could not speak. She burst into loud sobs.

Peter knelt in front of her, begging. “What happened, what happened?”

“He chopped it off!” Belle screamed.

Peter fell on the floor. “Jesus! I'll kill him! I'll kill him.”

Hira stepped forward. “Stop it, Peter. She is liddle.” She took the quivering Belle in her arms. “There, girl. There.”

Peter noticed the blood on Belle’s dress. He went to touch it, but she shied away.

***

Derek entered Stiles’ room with a lamp. He put it down beside him on the table. He studied Stiles’ pale face and dry lips. Stiles’ eyes flickered open.

Derek spoke to his feet. “I lost my temper. I'm sorry.”

He looked at Stiles. “You broke my trust, you pushed me hard, too hard. You cannot send love to HIM, you cannot do it. Even to think on it makes me angry, very angry.”

Stiles opened his eyes and looked at Derek. It was evident he heard nothing and had understood nothing, struggling with pain. His face grimaced and he groaned.

“I meant to love you. I clipped your wing, that is all.”

Stiles’ forehead was damp with fever. He thrashed at the blankets. Derek pulled them off to cool him. He felt his brow.

“You are feeling better?”

Stiles’ lips moved slightly and Derek turned suddenly as if he had heard something. Slowly he turned back to Stiles.

Derek looked at him intently, moving closer to his bed, closer to Stiles, until his eyes locked on his. “What...?”

The sound of his own voice made him blink. He watched Stiles as if listening to him speak in a voice that was so faint, and distant, that only with great concentration and perseverance could he make it out. As he watched his husband, Derek’s face transformed; his eyes filled, his lips softened and his eyebrows took on the exact expression of Stiles’ own.

The kerosene lamp burned fitfully, fluttering a light pulse across their faces. Derek moved closer to Stiles. Outside, a wind banged the iron roof and rubbed branches against each other making a high-pitched see-saw sound. He leaned closer still.

***

Carrying a candle in a glass box, Derek made his way through ghostly tree stumps.

In his other arm he had his gun.

At Peter’s hut, Derek stepped over the curled figure of Hira sleeping on the veranda and walked through the hut towards the bedroom where a lit candle flickered.

In the bed, Belle lay wrapped in a blanket, with Peter down on the floor beside her, axe in hand, both fast asleep.

 

Derek nudged Peter awake with the butt of his rifle prodding him under the chin.

Peter woke rudely with a start, frozen by the sight of Derek and his rifle.

“Put that away, on the floor.”

Peter obeyed, careful not to disturb the sleeping child.

Derek sat near the bed on a box, resting his gun across his knee, his face glowing. He looked closely at Peter, examining him.

“I look at you, at your face. I have had that face in my head, hating it. But now I am here, seeing it ... it's nothing, you blink, you have your mark, you look at me through your eyes, yes. You are even scared of me…” Derek laughed. “Look at you!”

Peter watched him stiffly, disconcerted, unable to read Derek’s strange mood.

Derek stared back at him. “Has Stiles ever spoken to you?”

“You mean in signs?”

“No, words. You have never heard words?”

“No, not words.”

Derek nodded. “Never thought you heard words?”

Peter shook his head.

“He has spoken to me. I heard his voice. There was no sound, but I heard it here,” he pressed his forehead with a palm of his hand. “His voice was there in my head. I watched his lips, they did not make the words, yet the harder I listened the clearer I heard him, as clear as I hear you, as clear as I hear my own voice.”

Peter tried to understand. “Spoken words?”

“No, but his words are in my  head. I know what you think, that it's a trick, that I'm making it up. No, the words I heard were his words.”

“What are they?” Peter asked softly.

Derek looked up at the ceiling as if reciting something he had learnt by heart and meant to repeat exactly as he heard it. “He said, _I have to go, let me go, let Peter take me away, let him try and save me. I am frightened of my will, of what it might do, it is so strange and strong_ ".

Peter eyed Derek angrily. “You punished him wrongly, it was me, my fault.”

Derek did not answer. Finally, he looked up, his eyes full with tears. “Understand me. I am here for him, for him I wonder that I don't wake, that I am not asleep to be here talking with you. I love him. But what is the use? He doesn't care for me. I wish him gone. I wish you gone. I want to wake and find it was a dream, that is what I want. I want to believe I am not this man. I want myself back; the one I know.”

"I want to understand. I can't. Your eyes are unseeing. You're making yourself and others miserable." 

Belle moved and turned in her sleep.

The two men watched. Her brow frowned then smoothed. Her eyelids rolled as her eyes darted back and forth in dream.

“Take her with you when you go. Stiles is the closest thing to a parent that she’s got,” Derek said finally.

***

Stiles’ trunks were delivered outside Derek’s hut by Mrs. Morag and her girls.

Stiles was led from Derek’s hut by Nessie. He was wearing a black suit and his arm was tied in a white sling. The light outside made him blink. Nessie smoothed his hair.

Bella timidly peeped at Stiles from behind Peter.

***

The piano was carried on ahead while in the secrecy of the bush, Peter kissed Stiles passionately. They rubbed their faces, Stiles' soft skin against Peter's prickly one turning rosy, and Peter could swear there was sound to Stiles' gasps. Peter kissed him more.

On the beach, Stiles sat looking out to the sea while Bella combed his hair. At the sea edge in front of them, the piano was being loaded on the canoe.

 

Hira and Peter were next to each other by the canoe. Hira was looking at Stiles.

“I worry for you,” she told Peter.

“No, I love him, we will be a family. I have his piano. I will mend it, he will get better.”

***

The sea was choppy and the piano was too difficult to steady in the canoe. Peter helped the rigging of the piano.

Thick rope ended coiled under Stiles' feet.

Hira was left on the shore with one child and two other Maori people. Tears ran openly down her big sad face as she sang her farewell to Peter in Maori. 

            “You are like seaweed drifting

            in the sea, Peter.

            Drift far away, drift far

            beyond the horizon.

            A canoe glides hither, a canoe

            glides thither

            But you though will journey on

            and eventually

            be beyond the veil.”

 

In the distance, the canoe dangerously seesawed from side to side.

“It’s too heavy - the canoe will tip over,” one of the oarsmen said.

“It's all right! Look, it's nicely balanced,” Peter replied.

“The wind is already strong.”

“Leave it – it’s too heavy.”

“No, he needs it, he must have it,” Peter argued.

The canoe paddled away from the shore.

Belle leaned over the edge of the canoe, sick, her mouth open, her hair held back by Peter. “I can't.”

Peter rubbed her back. Belle straightened up. “I can't.”

They retook their seats, Belle back to the piano, while Peter sat next to Stiles. He tenderly took his good hand.

Stiles removed his and signed to Belle who looked at Stiles then Peter, amazed.

“What did he say?” Peter questioned.

“He says, throw the piano overboard.”

Peter looked at Stiles. “It's quite safe, they are managing...”

Stiles signed again.

“What?” Peter asked.

“He says, throw it overboard. He doesn't want it. He says it's spoiled.”

Peter hugged him. “I have the key here, darling, look, the Maori brought it to me. I'll have it mended--"

Stiles mimed directly to Peter. _PUSH IT OVER_. His determination was increasing.

The oarsmen spoke in Maori. “Yeah, he's right, push it over, push the coffin in the water.”

“Please, Stiles, you will regret it. It's your piano, I want you to have it,” Peter begged urgently.

But Stiles did not listen. He was adamant and began to untie the ropes. The canoe was unbalancing as Stiles struggled with the ropes.

“All right, darling. Sit down, sit down.”

Stiles sat, pleased. His eyes glowed and his face was now alive.

 

Peter spoke to the Maoris who stopped paddling and together they loosened the ropes securing the piano to the canoe.

As they maneuvered the piano to the edge, Stiles looked into the water. He put his hand into the sea and moved it back and forth.

The piano was carefully lowered and with a heave, toppled over. As the piano splashed into the sea, the loose ropes sped their way after it.

Stiles watched them snake past his feet and then out of a fatal curiosity, odd and undisciplined, he stepped into a loop.

The rope tightened and gripped his foot so that he was snatched into the sea, and pulled by the piano down through the cold water.

***

The world died. It was all gone, Peter, Belle, canoe, the sky and the sun and sound as Stiles sped down to his ocean grave.

Silence. This was what it would feel like if the world itself only spoke in its head. 

Bubbles tumbled from Stiles' mouth. Down he fell, on and on. His eyes were open, his clothes twisting about him.

Peter and the Maoris diving after him could not reach him in these depths.

 

Stiles began to struggle. He wanted back. He kicked at the rope, but it held tight around his boot. He kicked hard again and then with his other foot, levered himself free from his shoe.

The piano and his shoe continued their fall while Stiles floated above, suspended in the deep water. Suddenly, his body awoke and fought, struggling upwards to the surface.

Stiles broke the surface.

_What a death! What a chance. What a surprise. My will has chosen life? Still it has had me spooked and many others besides._

Coughing and spluttering, Stiles was pulled on to the canoe. He was wrapped in jackets and blankets.

Peter and Belle cried, lying over him.

***

_I teach piano now in Nelson. Peter has fashioned me a metal finger tip, I am quite the town freak, which satisfies. I am learning to speak. My sound is still so bad I am ashamed. I practice only when I am alone and it is dark._

Stiles' hands moved across the piano keys, his metal finger shining in the dull light.

Stiles paced up and down the small drawing room. There were no lights on, only a dim blue evening wash. Over his head, he had a dark cloth. His voice made low guttural sounds as it repeated the vowels.

 _At night I think of my piano in its ocean grave, and sometimes of myself floating above it. Down there everything is so still and silent that it lulls me to sleep. It is a weird lullaby and so it is; it is mine. T_ _here is a silence where hath been no sound, the_ _re is a silence where no sound may be, in_ _the cold grave, under the deep deep, sea._

He walked near the wall, caressing it, as he repeated his consonants now. "P... P... P...", Stiles' lips popped.

Peter waited him there in a lover’s ambush.

Stiles smiled when his fingers felt an odd, Peter-shaped bump where no bump should have been. 

He pretended he hadn't felt it, but Peter's hand snuck around his waist and pulled him to him.

Stiles chuckled. Peter's heart swelled with joy at the sound.

"Darling, darling..." 

When he finally got Stiles where he wanted him, Peter kissed him sensually over his cloth-covered face, finding his nose, his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth with practiced ease.

"Peter."

 

THE END

 

 

 

 

         

**Author's Note:**

> *This story is based on Jane Campion's "The Piano", a true masterpiece, and my favourite "Teen Wolf" characters. 
> 
> I'm not sure this story could have ever remained untold, given my insane love for the film and the characters.
> 
> I don't own anything. All credits go to the creators of "Teen Wolf" and "The Piano".
> 
> I hope you liked it. Thank you for reading!


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